Ultra Vires
by Rikkioko
Summary: When Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley is waiting for him, waiting for the chance to see him pay for his sins. But the boy who comes back is not the enemy she remembers and the secrets he hides hit too close to Ginny's own dark past. Rated M
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** JK Rowling and other powerful people own everything except the plot and my twisted imagination.

**A/N** Hello all! The first four chapters of Ultra Vires are complete and will be submitted in quick succession. The remaining chapters of the story are still in the process of being written/edited and as such will take a bit longer. This story will be completed. I sure hope you enjoy it!

**Chapter One**

The wind is so much colder than it has any business being in October. The rain that accompanies it is like a spray of icy needles on her face. Ginny pulls her hood up a bit further and wonders for perhaps the thirtieth time why she's out here to begin with.

Her eyes skim the horizon to the figure perched on a lone bench near the lake. He hasn't moved in twenty minutes at least. Twenty minutes in rain that's making her shiver after thirty seconds.

She noticed him after dinner. She'd been marching towards the staircases. Moping, really. She's been doing that a lot since starting sixth year. And why shouldn't she mope? It's been raining for days. Dumbledore is gone. Her former boyfriend is off saving the bloody world with Hermione Ron-doesn't-fancy-her-my-foot Granger and her brother. She'd been all set to drag herself up the ridiculous number of stairs that led to her common room where she intended on curling up with a stack of Quidditch magazines for the rest of the night. It was at the bottom of those stairs that she glimpsed something out the window.

No, not something. Someone.

Closer inspection told her it wasn't even someone. It was Draco Malfoy. The boy who'd supposedly tried to kill Dumbledore. The boy who'd obviously failed, since Snape was still a hunted man for earning that dubious honor in Malfoy's stead.

She'd paused at the window for a moment, watching the straight line of his shoulders and the thatch of his unmistakable blonde hair. He was alone, of course. He was always alone these days. He'd returned a week after the term's start, ferried by Professor McGonagall of all people. Every table had coursed with raucous alarm, including the former Slytherin Prince's own, until the professor had held up a scroll with familiar handwriting. Silence fell instantly.

Professor McGonagall read the letter, penned straight from the old headmaster's distinctive hand, which said in no uncertain terms that Draco Malfoy was under a powerful spell last year and was no more a killer than any other student in that room. Malfoy didn't sneer or blush. He simply stared at his feet as Professor McGonagall droned on. So, Dumbledore had known of his impending demise. Not that it made a Knut of sense to find out about it now, when he was dead and gone and they were all alone.

The letter went on about forgiveness and all things coming clear in time, but Ginny really didn't listen to much of it. She was focused on the boy slumped at the new headmistress's side, the boy that she'd dreamed of destroying all summer long. It didn't matter that he hadn't done it. He was already the embodiment of everything she hated. What he attempted….what he dared…He was filth, pure and simple. No letter on heaven or earth was going to convince her of his goodness, not even one from Dumbledore.

He didn't look the same, though, except for maybe his hair. He'd grown taller and broader, and his angular face bore haunting evidence of the summer he'd endured. His cheeks were hollowed and dark circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes. She supposed losing your mother and family estate in a freak fire would do that to a bloke. Truth told, when she'd heard about the attack on Malfoy Manor, she'd felt a wicked surge of triumph rush through her. That surge was still a registering flicker as her eyes followed the last free Malfoy on his slow journey to the Slytherin table.

At McGonagall's warning, she, like everybody else who was gaping, pretended to return to her shepherd's pie. All the while, she watched him through the slits of her eyes as he approached the table. The members of his House surveyed him with a mix of fear and morbid fascination. She waited for his familiar snarl to pierce the silence, but it didn't. Maybe his tongue had been cut out. A girl could hope.

He didn't look up from the floor that day, not even when Crabbe and Goyle budged over to give him space. He hadn't looked up much since then, either. Silent and slow, he roamed the halls like a dead thing, moving from class to class as if under a Confundus Charm.

When she'd seen him after dinner tonight, she'd marched primly up her stairs, fully intent on carrying out her original plans. She was certainly not concerned about Malfoy and his pity party. For all she cared, he could freeze to death out there and save Azkaban the price of his daily gruel. It was without any intention or logical explanation that she retrieved her cloak and tapped back down the stairs.

Now that she's standing in the rain staring morosely at his back, she's seriously beginning to question whether or not she's under a spell herself. She squares her shoulders and closes some of the distance stretching between them. Her teeth are chattering and her fingers are aching, and she doesn't think she's ever hated anyone the way she's hating Draco Malfoy right now. Honestly, what kind of grown man holds this kind of melodramatic vigil in the rain?

_And what kind of girl goes after him? _

Ginny resolutely ignores that question, instead focusing on his morbidly still presence. He doesn't move a muscle, just sits there with his back to her, staring out at the lake. He might as well be sitting in the lake. The cloak he's wearing probably cost him more Galleons than she's ever seen, and it's soaked with rain and…is that blood?

She's still a few yards away, too far to be sure of what she thinks she's seeing. She moves on more quickly, her second-hand boots sloshing through the wet grass.

_I should go back for help. It could be a trap. Or he could be dead. _

Ginny shakes her head, chiding herself for being ridiculous. If he were dead, he wouldn't be sitting up. And it really isn't so much blood. Just a steady drip, drip, drip from a set of pale fingers hanging over the side of the bench. With six brothers, she's seen more blood than that at the Burrow every summer of her life. The back of his neck is so pale though, even whiter than his impossibly fair hair.

This is mad. She's utterly, barking _mad_ to be out here in this weather. And for what? Draco bleeding Malfoy. Oh, she hates him. _Hates_ him.

She sees the barest edge of a bare arm as she nears the bench and a shiver goes through her that has nothing to do with the cold. This is it; she's going to see his Mark. She's sickened by her eagerness as she moves around the bench, but there's reason for it. Once she sees the Dark Mark, once there can be no denial or slick stories, then he'll pay. She'll drag him back up to the castle and drop him on McGonagall's floor. Maybe she'll get to watch the Dementors come for him.

She rounds the bench and turns to face him, planting her hands on her sides. The site that greets her sends her stomach plummeting and her hands fluttering to her mouth before they've fully settled on her hips.

His sleeves are both rolled up, and the wicked, twisting black mark branding him as one of Voldemort's own is blazing on his pale flesh, just as she knew it would be. It's the proof she needs, but she isn't going do a thing with that proof at present because right now it's all she can do to remember to breathe.

It isn't the Dark Mark, or his eerie lack of acknowledgement of her presence that seems to be stealing the very air from her lungs. It isn't even the curved dagger clutched limply in his other hand. Her paralyzing horror is solely the fault of the jagged seeping wounds that form a square around the Dark Mark, as if he's decided to frame the bloody thing in like a painting.

His breath is coming in steaming puffs, and he's blinking steadily, as if he has no idea that she's here. She knows she should say something, should _do_ something! She tries to find her voice, but manages nothing more than a squeak that's lost behind her fingers.

"It won't come off," he says, and her eyes flick at his bloody fingers. She knows instinctively what he's tried to do. A terrible image of it goes through her mind, of his fingers pulling at his own flesh, trying to rip it, tear it away. Her stomach rolls and pitches and she swallows hard against the nausea. _Oh gods. _He turns his head slowly towards his arm, continuing on with a creepy indifference. "Knives, potions, spells…might try fire, I suppose."

_Do something, Weasely! _Her own inner urging calls her to action and she springs forward, yanking her wand from her belt. Though it shakes like a leaf in her numb fingers, she manages a brief healing spell that slows the flow of blood to a trickle and closes the wounds a bit. He tips his face up to look at her for the first time.

Empty. His eyes are grayer than the sky and framed in lush black lashes that make no sense on someone with such fair coloring. They are pretty eyes, really, but the hollow aching look that they offer is enough to seep the chill on her skin straight into her core. This isn't right. _He_ isn't right.

"Malfoy," she says, wanting to jar him, wanting to smack him until he snarls back at her like normal. He's looking right at her, but she can tell he sees nothing. She isn't a damned mediwitch! He needs Madame Pomfrey. "Malfoy," she repeats, feeling her skin rise in gooseflesh that has nothing to do with the cold. No response.

"Malfoy!" she shouts. Still he stares with those fathomless eyes. _Death Eater eyes?_ No. Just dead eyes.

"Draco?" she whispers. Something flashes in his expression, his eyes swirling with silver. His lips move and her belly flips and like a key tumbling in a lock, she knows he's seeing her. She simply knows it.

His fingers uncurl and the dagger splashes to the ground. Ginny takes a shaky breath, "Let's get you to Madame Pomfrey."

He gasps sharply, as if he's been underwater for a very long time. His gaze is locked on her face, his eyes bright and knowing as he watches her with something that looks an awful lot like awe. It scares her more than his arm. His fingers move towards her face and she raises her wand sharply. The hex dies on her tongue when he fingers a sodden red strand of hair that has slipped free of her hood.

This is not Draco Malfoy. She would bet her life on it.

"Ginny Weasley," he breathes and she can't even think for the creepiness of it all. Malfoy has never said her name before. The word sounds altogether foreign in his distinctive accent.

"It's me," she responds, heart thundering for every reason and no reason. _Why the hell had she said that? What kind of response is that?_

Suddenly, he twitches wildly and slumps back onto the bench, eyes fluttering. She feels her gut twist with apprehension. There is nothing right, nothing normal about this. This is the darkest kind of magic, and she knows it.

When he opens his eyes again, his expression is murderous, his eyes a flash of flint and fire. She tightens her grip on her wand and raises it to this new, albeit much more familiar, version of Draco Malfoy. He looks around hastily, gaze darting and shoulders tensing as he takes in his surroundings. It's as if he's seeing them for the first time. Catching a glimpse of his wounds, he scowls and tugs his sleeve down over the still scarlet gashes. His clothing isn't simply dripping when he stands, it's pouring, but that doesn't stop him from crossing his arms and glowering at her with obvious disdain.

"Come for a handout little Weasley?" he snarls and she steps back. This is creepy. She can nearly smell the magical signature on this bizarre transformation. His whole demeanor is different. Arrogant. Cruel. _Like he used to be._

He snatches her arm in a vicious grip and yanks her close, a sinister smile lighting his features. "You say a word about this and you'll pay in ways you can't imagine," he hisses.

"What happened to you?" she asks, more words that just spill from her lips without thought. He looks as though she's struck him. That same softened look she saw before seems to enter his eyes, but it's gone before she can be sure she saw it, replaced with his familiar hateful stare.

He drops her arm roughly, shoving her away hard enough that she stumbles to hold her footing. He squelches away, but she doesn't miss the murmured, "I woke up," that she knows wasn't meant for her.


	2. Chapter 2

She should have gone straight to Professor McGonagall. She knew it then, damn well knows it now, and is hard pressed to figure out why she hasn't. What reason could she possibly have for not turning in a confirmed Death Eater? Better yet, what could compel her to protect Draco frigging Malfoy?

A startling image of his bloodied arm comes to mind and she shakes it away. _Okay, besides that._ Ginny sighs and heads down the staircase. She's got to visit the public components cupboard if she's ever going to get this potion together in time for tomorrow's class. She should be worrying about Voldemort's newest lackey roaming the halls, but war or not, homework is still a reality in her world.

Her thoughts wander away again and settle on the Malfoy Mystery, as she's coming to think of it. As if being a Death Eater isn't enough reason to alert a teacher, he's also barking mad. The morning after their rendezvous, he'd traded snide remarks and gratuitous sneers with his fellow Slytherins at breakfast. It was like old times, like he hadn't actually spent the entire term until then skulking through the halls in a silent daze.

Ginny had been set to go to McGonagall straight after lunch, but she ran into him on her way there. He was standing by a portrait with slumped shoulders and a fixed stare. To the uninterested passerby, he probably just seemed to be taking in the art; but his vacant expression told Ginny he saw nothing inside the dusty frame. Besides, she didn't know a lot about Malfoy, but after more than five years in the same school she probably would have noticed if he had a fixation with the local artwork.

No, he wasn't enjoying the view; he was completely off his trolley.

She didn't turn him in. Not because she wanted to protect him, but because…alright, she didn't really know why, but it _wasn't _to protect him, that was for damned skippy sure. Maybe it was because it would feel like kicking the proverbial injured dog.

Whatever the reason, she'd been complying with some vague subconscious decision to hold off on talking to McGonagall until after she figured out why he was acting so strangely. A part of her reasoned that the headmistress would never let her in on the situation once Malfoy was turned in. It made sense to find out more first. Now, if she could get to the finding out part of her plan, all of this justification might actually be worthwhile.

She wasn't going to figure out anything while he was like this, though. Lately, he'd sunk back into silent mode. Last night, he hadn't said a word to anyone. Instead, he pushed his fork back and forth through his bangers and mash without eating a single bite. And she'd watched him do it, because these days, stalking the ferret has become priority number one for her.

Why the hell no one else seems to notice his bizarre behavior is beyond her, but she's well nigh obsessed. It's a pitiful existence. She spends her days alternately analyzing his every nuance when she's near him or obsessing over what he might be doing when she's not. It's ominously similar to the way she once pined for Harry Potter, but she's absolutely refusing to think about that.

"_Suppose I could try fire."_

His words from the lake replay in her mind and she wrinkles her nose. _Has he tried that?_ Surely she would have noticed. She rolls her eyes at herself irritably. Gods, she needs a hobby; one that has nothing to do with bodily mutilation or quests to remove Dark Marks. _But_ _for the record_, _he hasn't tried taking off his arm altogether, so there are still options_, she thinks. Ginny smirks wryly as she hits the last step, bringing her into the dungeon.

The smirk fades into a sigh and she rubs a hand over her tired face. Who exactly is she trying to kid, here? This is madness. She's got to turn him in. Soon.

Returning her focus to the ingredients she needs, she picks up her pace. She jumps when the Potions classroom door bangs open and Malfoy himself emerges with a leather messenger bag. She lurches back to avoid slamming into him and her satchel slips from her fingers, spilling quills and tomes on the stone floor.

"Bred like common cattle, you Weasleys," he says with a hard glare, "Strong but clumsy."

She picks up her belongings with a scowl and shoots back, "I'm not the one who offered up my ass for a branding iron."

He seems to eye her suspiciously for a moment, then scoffs quietly. "You should learn to watch your mouth around your betters, little girl," he says, brushing nonexistent dirt off his cloak as he moves away.

He stalks away in a swirl of black wool and she clenches her jaw so tightly that chipping a tooth is a very real possibility. It is the first time they have spoken since the _incident _and it is enough. This has gone on far too long already; it's time to turn him in. _Better late than never_, she thinks, staring daggers in the direction he went.

She turns on her heel, marching primly into the components room and gathering her necessary elements with a little extra force. She's made a hell of a mess, but she's too preoccupied to clean it up. For now, she needs to get to Professor McGonagall before curfew. She's got a Death Eater to expose.

Ginny storms down the hallway and up the stairs that lead out of the dungeon, berating herself for playing the sleuth to begin with. _Why in Merlin's name had she waited? There's a bloody war on!_ She remembers Malfoy's grip on her arm and his cold warning at the lake.

"…_you'll pay in ways you can't imagine."_

_Stupid or something worse?_ A shameful flush creeps across her cheeks and she speeds her pace, passing an old prefect's bathroom on her way.

A rough murmur greets her ears and she slows down. There is a cough, or maybe a sob, she can't tell which, but it's coming from the bathroom. A chill races down her spine. No one's supposed to be in that bathroom. It took a direct spell hit last year and with the decrease in student numbers was simply closed down. She eases her bag to the floor and pads quietly backwards, pressing her ear to the door.

"…weakness does not befit this face," a voice snarls and now it isn't just a voice. It's _his _voice. Malfoy is standing in that bathroom. Her heart rate doubles as she dares a peek through the crack. He is at the far side of the room, standing in front of the farthest sink, the only one in the room that isn't busted. She's watching him in profile, but it's obvious that he's staring at his reflection in a mirror mounted over the sink. Given the emptiness of the room, it's also obvious that he's talking to himself, which tips another point to the raving lunatic theory.

He seems to be struggling with something internally, and he shakes his head several times as if to clear his mind. "Breathe," he finally says softly, closing his eyes. He obeys his own command, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly while Ginny watches from the doorway. After a minute or two, he seems utterly relaxed, almost lethargic. The scowl is gone and his motions are sluggish.

He offers a slow glance around and she holds her breath when his gaze scans the doorway. Apparently the darkness is hiding her well, because he moves on quickly, eyeing the bag on the floor beside him. "Right." Ginny breaks in a cold sweat as he pauses to plug the sink basin and tug a cloth out of his bag.

He runs a hand slowly through his blond hair and unbuttons his shirt, as if in a trance. Everything is happening in excruciating slow motion. Ginny feels like she's in a dream, the kind where your legs are too heavy and every step seems impossibly difficult.

He turns on the water and she pushes the door open a smidgen wider. _Is this a ritual? Dark magic, surely. _When he slides his shirt off his wide shoulders, she tilts her head at the dance of muscle under pale skin.

_Pretty._

Instantly horrified with herself, Ginny pulls a sour face. He turns on the taps and moves a bar of soap to the sink and she feels herself flushing from her ears to her toes. This is obviously not a spell and she really needs to go. She's moving right past curiosity and on to something that distinctly resembles perversion. She starts backwards, then startles when he suddenly straightens, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. His profile shows a vastly different expression now, one very similar to the one he wore in the dungeon earlier and here only moments ago. His body is tense, his motions stilted.

Malfoy looks around, obviously perplexed as he gazes at his wet hands and the basin that is still filling with water. His eerie calm is gone, replaced with a frantic energy, and the air seems to have a faintly electric scent now. Despite having no actual basis for such a theory, Ginny is sure that something magical is happening. She worries her bottom lip and watches his hands fumble across the sink, shutting off the taps, slapping the soap onto the floor. He rips his fingers through his hair and glares warily at the mirror.

"Easily distracted today," he growls.

She's still edging back, her heart hammering somewhere near her throat, when Malfoy suddenly shivers all over. It's almost convulsive, as if he's been hit by a terrible spell. His legs shake violently and he lurches forward, catching himself on the sink with his long-fingered hands. Ginny gasps, less concerned now about being discovered and more concerned about the sickly shade of gray Malfoy's face is turning.

The air is sawing roughly in and out of him, catching and dragging as if he can't find the right rhythm. A thin ribbon of terror runs through her as he slips to his knees and hauls himself up again, his face growing impossibly paler. _What is this? What the hell is going on?_

She wants him caught, wants him punished. But this…this is coiling her stomach in dread. He lurches again and her chest pangs. No, she doesn't want this. Not even for him. She lunges into the room and is halfway to him when he suddenly goes ramrod straight, the tendons taut in his ivory arms.

"No!" he growls at his reflection, and she nearly leaps out of her skin when he slams his forehead into the mirror. "Get out," he groans and when the blood begins to flow, she gives a little cry.

Malfoy spins towards her, clamping a hand over his head and offering a look of pure shock. She forces her rubbery legs to carry her into the room while he swipes at his wound uselessly. She had assumed his words were for her, but he clearly is only just now aware of her presence. He stiffens as she approaches, shaking his head desperately but managing no voice for whatever words he's trying to produce.

"You're bleeding," she states obviously, and a little breathlessly. She wrestles through her robes and curses when she realizes her wand is still on her nightstand, where she'd left it after dinner. He covers the cut again, and Ginny glances at the door. "It's bad. I've got to get help."

"No," he croaks, snatching her wrist when she moves to leave. She yanks free from his grip, but when he sways on the spot, she finds herself grabbing his elbows. The amount of blood is horrifying and she isn't a girl easily horrified. It brings to mind the time Fred caught a Bludger in the nose. There are thin crimson rivers running from his brow to his waistband. His hands are coated and her wrist feels sticky from where he's touched her. Mum always says that head wounds look worse than they really are, but _still_.

"I don't have my wand," Ginny manages, releasing his arms when he seems sturdy. "We've got to get to Madame Pomfrey."

"No!" he snarls, closing his eyes.

"Fine, be a stubborn ass!" she snaps. "I'll just wait for you to pass out and drag you by your ear!"

Utterly ignoring her, he pulls his wand from his pants. He murmurs a spell, but it barely slows the flow of blood. He coughs and she realizes it isn't a cough, but a laugh. It's the most destitute sound she's ever heard.

"After all this, they'll know. They'll know and he'll know. And I'll die. It's for nothing."

Gods, this is freaking her out. She wants to get help. She really does. But when he stumbles and slides gracelessly down the back wall until he's sitting on the floor, that same something that's been holding her back all this time, refuses to let her go. He leans forward, as if he's thinking of getting up, but she presses a hand to his shoulder and crouches in front of him. After a beat of hesitation, she grabs his forgotten towel, pressing it hard on the wound.

"Hold this," she commands, and he obeys wordlessly, eyes still shut.

She takes the wand from his limp fingers and mutters the same healing spell, satisfied when the bleeding stops and the wound begins to show signs of healing. She curls her lip as she realizes this is the second time she's healed him. It's a hell of a contradiction since she'd been spent a good bit of her summer dreaming up ways to make him suffer.

He starts to say something, but promptly passes out, slumping forward in a very un-Malfoy-like heap. Ginny pushes him back gently, shocked at his bulk. He was so scrawny before, a little slip of snobby boy with silvery blond hair. Now, it's all Ginny can do to ease his upper half to the ground without dropping him. When it's done, he's lying on his side against the wall and she's sitting in front of him. With a shuddering sigh, she waves his wand for the second time, performing a desperately needed Scourgify on both of them.

Her eyes narrow at him. Now that the bleeding has stopped, she should leave him here and get back to the business of turning him in. She will, too, as soon as she stops staring at him. He really should look more evil, but he doesn't. He actually looks sort of angelic with his pale hair and pretty face. Ginny snorts, but it doesn't make it any less true. He also looks terribly sad. It's giving her the strangest urge to brush his hair away from his forehead, and _that's_ going to give her the willies for years she'd bet. But it looks so different, all damp and messy above his pale face. Her fingers move to hover over his forehead of their own volition and her stomach squirms. Disgusted, she yanks her hand back.

"You haven't gone," he says flatly and she jumps at the sound of his voice. She has no idea how long he's been awake, as his eyes are still shut.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks, surprised at how ragged her voice sounds. He only offers up that haunted laugh of his in response. She shakes her head and balls her fists, "I should just leave you here, you know."

"Yes," he agrees and his tone is deadly serious. She leans over him, frowning.

"Look at me," she says, and he doesn't obey, so she just keeps watching him.

It's a little unnerving how easy Draco Malfoy is to look at. He's got a soft, full mouth that contrasts his angular face and eyelashes that are so long she half-wonders if he's charmed them. She's not sure she's ever noticed any of that before, and she's _definitely _sure she's never noticed his body. Hell, before today, she'd never even considered that Malfoy _had_ a body beneath all those expensive robes. But he does, and she's noticing. She sorely wishes she wasn't.

"Ginny Weasley again." At the gravely sound of his voice, her eyes jump guiltily from the sharp ridges of his stomach to his storm-swept eyes. Pretty flecks of silver are dancing in his irises and her ears are so hot, she's sure they'll burst into flame. "Of all the people to find me twice," he croaks, the barest touch of haughty amusement in his tone. He's holding eye contact and it's making her feel like she's been sucked into a cyclone, her head spinning and her breath caught tight in her chest.

When he closes his eyes again, she feels bereft and relieved at once. "Does the light hurt your eyes?"

"If I don't see, he doesn't see," he murmurs groggily and her world lurches as the blackest of possibilities forms in her mind's eye.

_No. Gods, no. Not this._

Ginny scrambles to her feet and chokes on her own breath. She feels sicker than sick, her throat closing up and her hands balling into cold fists at her sides. She looks down at him while her own memories rush at her in blinding speed, the sight of pages flipping, the sound of her quill scratching. She almost feels the rush that would fill her every time _his_ words would appear on the page, responding to her own. Then bloody words on the wall and the sink shifting away to give her access. She presses her hands to her eyes as if it will ward off the onslaught of images. Mercifully, her mind slows and she looks down at Malfoy once more, fear and mercy jockeying for position in her mind.

"He's inside of you isn't he?"

His silence is all the confirmation she needs.


	3. Chapter 3

Ginny has never moved so quickly in her life. She's running in a full sprint down the corridors and stairs. And for Malfoy, no less. It's completely disturbing. Nonetheless, she's still zipping through Hogwarts, hair on fire, to find help for him.

When he'd tried for the third time, unsuccessfully, to stand up, she knew they needed help. Of course, she might have been able to help him, but frankly, he was shirtless and they were in a bathroom. It was all a little too bizarre.

"_Wait here," she said, "I'll be right back."_

"_No, Weasley," he snapped. "I said no one can know!"_

"_And no one will," she promised. "I've got an idea."_

_His eyes watched her with obvious suspicion. "Why in Merlin's name would you want to help me?"_

_She didn't like any of the possible answers to his question, so she simply ignored it. She moved for the door, casting one last look at his prone form. "Please, Draco," she softly pleaded. "Wait."_

Ginny huffs down the last staircase and slips quietly into the darkness of The Great Hall with a scowl. She's certain she's gone mental, now. Ginny Weasley does not plead with anyone, least of all a gormless prat like Malfoy. She also does not call him _Draco_. Or at least she didn't used to. She snorts irritably as she pushes open the kitchen doors.

She searches the faces of the elves who look up from their chopping and stirring. She's surprised they're still working at this hour. Towards the back a particular elf, dressed in at least a dozen mismatched garments, smiles as he sees her.

"Miss Ginny Weasley!" Dobby says, putting down his knife to approach her. The other elves look away in obvious distaste as he peers up at her with his impossibly large eyes. "Have you brought Dobby news of Harry Potter? Is he safe?"

Ginny feels her eye twitch at the mention of her ex. "I'm sorry, Dobby, I haven't heard from him." It's the truth, too. She's received no floo calls or hastily scrawled notes delivered by strange owls. If her mother's clock still works, and it does, the trio, or at least Ron, was still alive last time she checked. Beyond that, they know nothing.

"In so much time there is still no news of Harry Potter?" Dobby cries, very real worry in his tone. "Oh, Dobby worries for him, Miss Weasley!"

"I know," she says wearily. "But I don't have any answers about Harry. I'm here for help myself."

He nods eagerly, but seeming to notice her reluctance to say more, leans very close until she can see her own reflection bobbing in his eyes. As far as she can tell, she looks dreadful.

"Is it a secret, Miss Weasley?"

She nods and lowers her voice. "Can you come with me?"

Dobby does not hesitate. He follows her back through the castle in silence, keeping up surprisingly well with her long strides. When they reach the bathroom, she finds herself holding her breath until she pushes open the door and spots him across the room. A completely inappropriate wave of relief rushes over her. She ignores it and walks up to him, bringing Dobby with her.

Malfoy is sitting against the wall near the sink now, hands draped over his bent knees. He's obviously used the wand she returned, as the floor is clean and the mirror is repaired. He's also managed to shrug on his shirt, but the buttons are not fastened and his cuffs hang open around his large hands. Something tugs low in her belly when he looks up at her, his eyes a flash of silver peeking through dark lashes. The feeling passes when his focus shifts from her to direct a grimace at Dobby.

"Oh, no you don't," Malfoy hisses, struggling to his feet and clutching the edge of the sink for support. "That Potty-loving traitor elf isn't coming near me."

She cocks her head and arches a brow. "No? Pomfrey, then? Professor McGonagall?" His expression is mutinous, but he seems to find no answer for her. She continues, "Perhaps I should fetch Hagrid, he's a right ace with—"

"Save it, Weasley," he snarls and she smirks triumphantly as she turns back to Dobby.

"Malfoy's been hurt very badly," she explains, gesturing vaguely at him. Dobby seems reluctant to even chance a look.

"Yeah, and what would a sniveling bag of wrinkles like…." Draco's voice abruptly trails off in a shuddering breath. She turns around to see his eyes closed and his face pale, his fingers white and taut against the porceline.

"Alright there?" she asks. Surely she isn't _worried_. _Is she?_ His brow furrows and she wonders when she moved so much closer to him, and more interestingly, when she reached for his hand on the sink, which is cool and dry beneath her fingers. Before she can figure it out, he looks at her. A sharp sensation stabs through her middle, then dissipates into a wild fluttering. The whole world shrinks down to a pinpoint as they stare each other down.

"Dobby is not servant to the Malfoys anymore," the house elf says softly, and the moment snaps like a dried up twig. Ginny pulls her hand back and turns to Dobby, feeling a rush of heat in her cheeks as she collects herself. She has no idea what just happened, but she's pretty sure she should cut off her hand and scour her eyes when she gets back to her dorm.

It takes her longer than it should to realize that Dobby has moved between them and is studying Draco carefully. He's also waiting for her reply. "I don't know where else to go," she manages at last. "I completed a healing spell, but he's terribly weak. And the teachers mustn't know!"

"That's right, you little maggot," Draco snarls, any trace of weakness vanished, "and if you breathe a word of it—"

Ginny is whirling to cut him off when Dobby's voice stops her. "I will help you, Master Malfoy."

Given the total silence that follows this declaration, Ginny guesses that Draco is every bit as shocked by the declaration as she. When she turns, she sees Malfoy's face is pensive, his eyes locked warily on the house elf watching him.

"I don't have time," Draco whispers, and his tone is so raw, so desperate that she shivers. They are watching each other intently. Ginny knows at once that she has become a spectator, as inconsequential as vapor between them.

Dobby nods with sad eyes. With _knowing_ eyes. "He's never been patient."

Something sour zings through her belly. _Jealousy?_ She wants to spit the thought out of her head. But it's there. Malfoy is _her_ secret. Hers. Not Dobby's, no matter how many years they spent together at Malfoy Manor. This entire line of thinking is going nowhere good and she'd really like to know when she came completely unhinged like this.

The house elf utters a few words in a tongue she doesn't recognize. Ginny knows very little of house elf magic, but she has no doubt that a spell has been cast.

"Will it…" Malfoy leaves the remainder of his question dangling, but the hope in his voice is heart-breaking.

"Dobby has no power over that, Master Malfoy. There will be time to restore your energy and perhaps for a shower, if you wish."

"Yes. A little privacy, Weasley?" It is not a question, but he follows it with another look that sends a shower of sparks through her system. For Merlin's sake. She's one hard knock on the head away from St. Mungo's. Ginny nods woodenly, and heads for the door without a backward glance.

She walks briskly to the end of the corridor. _They're just eyes, you big girl's blouse. Malfoy eyes, no less._ She nearly jumps clean out of her skin when a cat darts in front of her path. Bugger all. Of course it would have to be _this_ cat she'd run into. Yellow eyes blink and the cat transfigures into Headmistress McGonagall while Ginny watches.

"Out a little late, Miss Weasley?"

A little, indeed. She doesn't need a clock to tell her she's a solid hour past curfew at the least. "Yes, Professor."

She's got detention for sure, but it doesn't matter. Professor McGonagall has to know. Malfoy would have kittens if he knew she was out here right now, but she's had Voldemort crawl around inside her brain, too. She knows that it _feels_ safer to hide, but it isn't. It really isn't.

McGonagall huffs when the silence stretches too long. "Well? Do you have any explanation for what you're doing here at this hour?"

"It's Draco Malfoy, ma'am," she says quietly, her eyes darting around the hall to be sure no one else is listening. Malfoy needs help; but Argus Filch is not what she has in mind.

"Miss Weasley, thanks to your none too subtle facial expressions in the Great Hall, your reservations regarding Mr. Malfoy are known to everyone."

McGonagall probably thinks she's going to try to beg out of detention claiming emotional trauma over a snotty remark or some such rot. Ginny crosses her arms, angrily.

"He's a Death Eater," she announces tartly. "And I'm pretty sure you-know-who has a backstage pass to his head."

Her teacher purses her lips tightly and looks likes she's seriously considering a year's worth of detentions.

"He's possessed, Professor!" she cries, now exasperated by the lack of response. "By Voldemort!"

"Thank you, Miss Weasley," McGonagall says and without further response or explanation, takes her arm and leads her briskly into an abandoned classroom. She extends her wands and mutters several spells before turning to Ginny with a stern look. "I am perfectly aware of Draco's possession."

Ginny gapes openly, finding no words that even begin to cover her thoughts. Off her look, McGonagall makes a soft clicking noise. "Honestly, I have taught Draco Malfoy since he was eleven. Do you think I wouldn't notice his peculiar behavior as of late?"

"Peculiar?" Ginny snorts. "He's been a raving lunatic!" Catching her teacher's disapproving frown, she ducks her head and adopts a respectful tone. "Sorry, ma'am."

"I certainly hope so," she says and Ginny's cheeks burn. "In any event, while I appreciate your concern, I am aware of both the possession and the Dark Mark."

"What are you going to do?" Ginny asked, and when McGonagall looked quietly away, she feels a frisson of panic lance her middle. "You have to do something! He can't live like that!"

"What we are planning is not your concern, Miss Weasley. I do wonder how _you_ came upon this information, though."

"I've…" Ginny swallows hard. "I've been watching him. I was hoping to…"

"Bring him to justice?" she asks, and Ginny is pretty sure her face is all the confirmation McGonagall needs. She continues, evenly, "And now?"

Ginny stares at her fingernails evenly. "It's different. I've had him inside me and there's no worse feeling on earth." She pauses to let loose a sigh. "Look, I know he's a snobby little brat, but I've got to help him. No one should be used like that. Not even Malfoy."

"Indeed." McGonagall lets out a sigh before continuing, "The best thing you can do is to leave this to us, and steer clear of Mr. Malfoy, lest he suspect your awareness."

"That's it? Steer clear?" Ginny cries. "How long do you think we have until the whole school figures it out? Granted, the Slytherins are a pretty thick lot, but at some point one of them is going to notice when they find him staring at a spoon for two hours!"

"No, they won't. The teachers warned the Slytherin House not to discuss his strange behavior. They believe it is an after effect of the spell Mr. Malfoy was under."

Ginny's mind clicks pieces together. "The spell. The one Dumbledore talked about in his letter. It wasn't a spell, was it? It was this."

McGonagall nods gravely and drops her voice to a rasp, "We are working on a cure, but our secrecy is crucial to any hope of success! We believe Draco may be aware of his condition, but we cannot approach him as we do not know if he is working with or against the possession. If we reveal too much too soon, we risk everything."

"The trances," Ginny says, eyes bright. "He's doing them himself, isn't he? That's how you know he's aware."

"We believe so. Bringing himself to a trance-like state would certainly make it easier to shut down his mind, to lock out external sources. But alternately, if he wished, he could use this to open doors, to heighten his possessor's access."

Ginny shakes her head fiercely. "No way. Malfoy is a lot of things, most of them things I hate, but there's no way he'd trust anyone enough to open his mind intentionally."

McGonagall nodded in concession. "That is my hope as well, but there's no way to be sure. Who's in control at any given moment is anyone's guess given Malfoy's inherently disagreeable personality."

Her mind wanders to the first encounter at the lake, when his eyes swirled with light. That same silver glow was dancing in his gaze in the bathroom after she'd healed him, and then again when she'd touched his hand. Somehow she knows that the Draco she saw tonight, the Draco whose eyes spin with little wisps of silvery light, is real.

"I can tell," she announces confidently.

Professor McGonagall opens her mouth as if to refute, but Ginny squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. "I can't explain it, but I know when I'm dealing with the real Draco Malfoy and I should be using that ability."

Her teacher watches her for a long beat before responding. "I've had enough dealings with your family to know that regardless of what I say, you will be watching Draco Malfoy," she says. "Learn what you can of his patterns, but do not be discovered!"

"He knows I know," she admits and McGonagall's brow creases. "The _real _Draco knows," she corrects. "And don't bother telling me I'm in danger. We're all in danger."

"Still, your caution is crucial. While we know that only one soul may be in control of a body at any given time, that soul can change very quickly!"

"I know," Ginny nods, "I've seen it happen."

"Then you know you must be careful."

Ginny nods wearily and heads for the door at her teacher's urging. Hand on the knob, she turns back with unexpected tears in her eyes. Her voice is small and weak when she speaks. "Seeing him…it's like going back. It's like living it all over again."

McGonagall's expression softens. "We will help him, Miss Weasley."

Ginny offers a weak smile before they step into the hallway. They walk together in silence, exchanging a small nod as they branch off to head toward their prospective quarters. After McGonagall's footsteps have slipped into silence, she turns around, padding away from her dorm.

_Un-bloody-believable, _she thinks with a self-derisive snort. She's going to check on him. She might as well start doodling his name in the back of her school books. When she reaches the prefect's bathroom, she hears the soft rush of water beyond the door. She raps softly on the wood deciding she's done plenty of spying for one night.

Dobby emerges at once and Ginny steps back to give him room. She hears the water turn off before Dobby closes the door behind him.

"How is he?"

"He is stronger, Miss Weasley, but…" Dobby trails off and wrings his hands.

"But what?" she snaps, not liking the way her chest feels tight with anxiety now when a week ago, hell a few hours ago, she wouldn't have cared if he drowned himself in a toilet.

"They're so terribly alike!" Dobby cries. "Even when he's himself, there is the shouting and the snapping. And the resemblance…" Dobby trails off in a whimper.

"Resemblence?" Ginny asked, confused.

Before Dobby can respond, the bathroom door is thrown open and Malfoy emerges, hair still damp, but otherwise looking more put together than she ever has in her life. His robes are impeccable and there's a clean woodsy scent floating around him.

"What's it going to take to keep you away from me, Weasley?" Malfoy sneers, but beneath the cold words she sees fear swimming in his eyes. And that's not all she sees. It's still Draco in there. Apparently she has a bloody gift with that. _Terrific._

"I know what's happening to you, Malfoy," she snaps, her irritation with herself coming through. "I've been possessed by Voldemort. I know what it looks like."

He barks out a cruel laugh and shakes his head. "You don't know a thing about it!" he hisses. "Go back to your common room, Ginny. Stay away from me. I'm warning you."

The look in his eyes is anything but a warning. It's a plea. He's afraid. Afraid for her. The realization strikes her with such force that she can do nothing but watch blankly as he leaves them, his long strides taking him quickly out of sight.

"Miss Weasley, Master Malfoy is right," Dobby says, and she looks down to see his still watery eyes blinking up at her in surprise.

"Right about what?"

"He is not possessed by Voldemort; he is possessed by Master…" Dobby shakes his head, a bitter look lighting his features. "By Lucius Malfoy. His father."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hey there, I'm posting two chapters today because there are a few people who have taken the time to let me know they're enjoying it, and that really made me happy. grin Thanks for bearing with me since it took a little while. Also, if you are reading and enjoying, please do drop me a line to let me know. This is my first real effort with a totally non-canon ship and I'll feel a lot less silly continuing if people are actually enjoying the story! To those of you who have reviewed, this bonus chapter posting is absolutely for you. Thank you so very much.

Ginny stares into her tea cup with a sigh and re-crosses her legs for the tenth time. There's absolutely nothing of interest to look at in Professor McGonagall's study. She almost wishes that the new headmistress had taken Dumbledore's office. At least then she'd get to make faces at all the past headmasters. As it is, she's got to wait for her teacher with nothing but her thoughts to entertain her. It's not a pretty proposition.

Since her entire life has been reduced to Mission: Draco, there's not a whole lot outside of him to think about. Bloody embarrassing is what it is, and a bit painful, too. She's got a slow squeezing burn in her gut that she's trying to blame on something she's eaten. Because if Tuesday's pasty didn't have it in for her, then she might have to consider the possibility that it hurts to watch Draco Malfoy suffer. She doesn't like that idea at all.

It's been plenty bad enough following him with a perpetual case of heartburn, but she had to add insult to injury by learning things about Draco that have nothing to do with the possession. These other _things _shouldn't interest her in the slightest, but they do. She knows he's got a soft spot for his eagle owl, who's named Brice, and that he sneaks him treats after meals. He fingers his quills a certain way when he's paying attention, and enchants scraps of paper into origami when he's bored. He's an unbelievably fussy eater, and a much better flyer than she ever gave him credit for. He also looks more appealing in green and black leather than any person should, and that's the kicker, really. Malfoy is appealing. As in, appealing to her.

There's got to be a wing in Azkaban for cretins like her. She doesn't even like blonds, for Merlin's sake.

She flushes hotly, and puts her cup down roughly in the saucer. She is immensely relieved by the groan of the door announcing her teacher's presence.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," McGonagall says. "Three days away and there's no end to the catching up."

"Your trip went well then?" Ginny asks, straightening in her chair and hoping that the trip had to do with Draco's cure.

"I completed some valuable research, so yes," she answers meaningfully. Ginny gives a brief smile.

"Professor McGonagall, I need to discuss something with you. It also involves…_research_."

"Oh?" Professor McGonagall raises her hand to silence Ginny and performs several spells in quick succession. Then, she nods, "Well, then let's get straight to it, shall we?"

"I'm afraid I was wrong about Draco's possession. It isn't Voldemort possessing him; it's his father."

Her teacher's eyes flash in alarm, but it vanishes almost instantly. "How can you be sure?"

"Dobby told him. I brought him to Draco that night," Ginny says, feeling her cheeks go crimson at the admittance. "He was injured and I thought Dobby might be able to help."

"Injured? You said nothing to me of injuries."

"Please, Professor, I promised I wouldn't," she counters apologetically. "I'd already cast a healing spell, but he was terribly weak. I knew house elves had powerful magic, so I went in search of Dobby."

"You are referring to the house elf that used to live with the Malfoys, are you not, Miss Weasley?" Professor McGonagall asks in obvious disbelief. "It was my understanding that he had less than amicable feelings toward his former family."

"I thought so, too, but I didn't know where else to turn, and he agreed to come. He seemed reluctant at first, but then…" she trails off with a confused frown. "It may sound silly, Professor, but Dobby knew exactly what was happening. He knew it was Lucius. He was even able to cast a spell that seemed to protect Malfoy temporarily."

Professor McGonagall nods absently. "An elf would be perceptive to such matters. And their kind possesses a very powerful magic, though the effectiveness of a spell of that nature would likely diminish with each successive…" She trails off, seeming to forget her train of thought entirely. "His own father," she says abruptly, clearly horrified.

"It's terrible," Ginny says softly, unexpected tears suddenly blurring her vision. "He usually takes over while Draco sleeps or when he's very tired, and he imitates him so well most of the time." She pauses to shake her head in disgust. "Draco fights him off in the middle of the day by going into a trance, like you talked about. Or sometimes, he focuses really intently on something he's reading or doing, like flying."

"Are you sure?" McGonagall says with a furrowed brow. "Are you sure he's fighting him off and not helping?"

"I'd bet my life on it, Professor," Ginny says hotly, some part of her vaguely wondering why she's so quick to defend him. "He is being violated."

Professor McGonagall holds her breath for a beat, then gives a slight nod. "Thank you, Miss Weasley. I admit this information comes as a shock to me. With Lucius being in Azkaban, I am earnestly amazed that he's managed it. I fear this will complicate matters."

"What do you mean? Don't you have the spell to fix him?"

"We did," she says, with a sad smile on her lips. "We had everything in order to get Voldemort out of Mr. Malfoy's mind."

"Well, then use it! You can't honestly tell me that Lucius Malfoy is stronger than Voldemort, can you?"

"Indeed, I can. Lucius shares familial ties with Draco. There is blood power in this possession. It is beyond normal magic, this bond."

Ginny's stomach drops into her knees at this. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," McGonagall says. "I honestly have no idea."

"What can we do?"

"For now, I must forbid you from following Mr. Malfoy," the professor insists. "I can not allow you to endanger yourself further. I can only begin to imagine Lucius Malfoy's intentions, but they're likely to be every bit as heinous as the atrocity he's committing with his son."

"I can't do that, Professor McGonagall," she says, alarm and insistence infusing her tone. "He is totally alone! And you can't do it alone, either. You've got the school and your classes and all I have…" There is something too raw in this statement and she leaves it hanging there unfinished. She knows, inexplicably, that if she completes this thought, things will never be the same again. She drops her eyes to her abandoned tea and finishes softly, "No one is in more danger than Draco, Professor. Someone needs to watch him and I already know his habits. He won't discover me."

"Do you honestly feel that your parents would approve of this, Miss Weasley?" Professor McGonagall asks sharply.

"No, I don't," she admits, "but I'll be of age soon, and if Hogwarts has taught me anything about being a witch, it's that I must be able to think clearly on my own."

Ginny can see the resolve waver in her face. McGonagall has always been an advocate of strength and self-reliance. She knows she's won before her teacher relents with a slight inclination of her head.

"Well done," she says, with a knowing glint in her eye. "I suppose I do not need to remind you to be careful?"

"I will. I promise."

A few minutes later, Ginny is back in the hallway. McGonagall agreed to keep her informed and she did the same, but for now, they simply wait. Draco suffers and she takes notes. Brilliant plan. Except for the part about her being smack dab in the middle of it again. And this time, she _begged_ for it. Demented is what she is. Utterly demented.

Maybe it's because of Harry, because of the loneliness and all that. It would make a good deal of sense if it was even remotely true. But it isn't. Ginny waited five years to date The-Boy-Who-Lived. He ended it, so it's ended. She's got no intention of pining away another few years of her life in the hope of a future that might not ever be. If it's meant to happen for Harry and her, then…_then I wouldn't be checking out Draco Malfoy, _she thinks

Ginny heaves a sigh and rubs her palm absently over her face. She needs to get out of here, needs to get her head sorted and somehow the Gryffindor common room just doesn't seem ideal for accomplishing that. Instead, she makes her way through the halls and pushes open the heavy doors that lead to a small, overgrown garden.

It's isolated and run-down, but it's always been one of her favorites. There are twisting paths and ivy-covered walls. Best of all, there's a narrow gurgling stream which changes course every few minutes, carving a new path through the garden. The stream is probably the primary reason this place is usually deserted. Most students don't want to risk getting soaked in the middle of a picnic when the lake is perfectly content to sit still for them.

She steps over mossy rocks and trails a hand over a crumbling stone wall. The sun has dipped below the west side of the castle now, leaving this east-facing garden bathed in blue shadows. It is familiar and quiet and exactly what she needs, until she realizes she isn't alone.

Her heart catches at the sight of him, and she's beginning to consider blindness spells which would be preferable to her increasingly embarrassing reactions to his presence. In her defense, he does look particularly attractive at present, crouched by the river's edge with his breath steaming in the cold and his hair glinting in the twilight. His black cloak is thrown behind his shoulders and he's turning something over in his gloved fingers.

A coin? No, a necklace…a locket, maybe?. _Draco Malfoy has a locket?_ It's official, the world is actually ending. Right now.

He's scowling at the object in his fingers and she can't get a fix on his eyes. She's not about to get any closer until she knows exactly who she's dealing with. A gush of wind blows behind her and she crouches down, taming her wild, red hair with a pale hand. The stream through the garden shifts course, and Draco steps over it easily.

"Why are you following me?" he asks and she whips her head around desperately, looking…hell, _hoping_, to find someone else nearby. When she turns back, his eyes are locked on hers and she's feeling absolutely ridiculous for crouching down in the bushes like a common thief. She stands up and offers a pitiful shrug.

"I fancied a walk," she tries, moving a little closer and breathing easier when she sees the familiar dance of silver in his eyes. _Better than Daddy Deatheater._ He shakes his head and closes his fist around the locket as she approaches. She stops when she is just out of arm's reach.

"That's a lovely story, but we both know you've been following me since that night in the bathroom."

_Bugger._ Ginny flushes and manages a wry smirk. "Actually until just now, I was pretty sure only one of us knew, so give us a minute to catch up, yeah?"

He almost smiles and her heart does flips. It's disgusting. His cruel mask descends once more, leaving his generous mouth in a hateful scowl. "I told you to stay away."

"I didn't listen."

"You should have listened. You also shouldn't have gone to McGonagall."

"Funny thing about me," she says, trying for a light tone despite her nervousness, "I'm terrible with following directions."

He whirls around on her so fast that she loses her breath. Before she can reach for her wand, before she can even think, he's got a hard grip on her wrists and he's steering her bodily back into an ivy-draped wall.

"You think you're cute, don't you, Weasley?" he snaps, face so close that she can smell the faintest trace of cinnamon on his breath. He pushes her hard and she gasps when his thighs press against hers to pin her in place. "Bloody Gryffindors, always _gagging_ to be the hero."

She says nothing, just watches him stare down at her, his cheeks flushed with fury, his eyes smoldering. He won't hurt her, not really. She's strangely sure of this, so she does not interrupt when he goes on in a snarl, "Just like your pathetic little boyfriend, aren't you? _Everybody_ could use a bit of saving from you."

She really wants to tear into him for that, but she doesn't. She just focuses on breathing in and out and on not noticing how warm and firm he feels against her. He's trembling all over and she's itching to touch him, itching to soothe the pain that tarnishes the air around him.

"You think you can save me, Weasley?" he snaps, and his voice is a jagged knife, ripping through the very seams of her sanity. "You and your righteous little professor? You have no idea what I've done! No idea!"

The anguish in his voice makes her stomach clench. If she looks at him one more moment, there's no telling what she'll do. She sighs in relief when he releases her and turns his back on her. The locket is now splayed in the dirt between them. She reaches for it quietly, blinking at the two tiny oval pictures. One is of Draco, all little boy cheeks and impossibly blonde hair. The other is of Lucius Malfoy. She resists the urge to scratch out his cold eyes with her fingernail.

"Do you know what he's had me do?" he croaks woodenly, but she's sure he does not expect a response. She's also sure, very sure, that she does not want to hear what he's about to say. An owl hoots softly from somewhere near and she breathes in the coolness of the evening.

"I can still smell it," he says softly, so softly that she moves closer so as not to lose his voice in the soft rush of the stream. "My throat still stings and my eyes still burn. I taste the ash. I feel the heat. I can still smell the sweet charring of cedar."

Something cold slithers and curls in her belly and her hands begin to tremble as Draco continues, "I can smell her hair," he says, breath hitching. "That's when I came back. I regained control of my body just in time to smell of my mother's hair burning from her scalp. _That's_ the inheritance my father left me."

Ginny covers her mouth and tears slide over her fingers unchecked. She can tell by his trembling shoulders that he's crying, too, and it is all she can do to not touch him.

"How are you going to save that, Weasley?" he grits out between quiet sobs. "How do you save someone that doesn't want to be saved?"

She can't hold back the hiccupping cry that escapes her throat anymore than she can stop her arms from going around his middle. She crosses her arms over the hardness of his stomach and presses her wet cheek against his back, feeling him take and hold a sharp breath at her embrace. She only holds him tighter, terrified by what she's done and even more terrified that he might try to shake her off. He doesn't, so she clings to him for long minutes in the ethereal quiet of approaching night.

"You didn't do this," she finally manages, her voice broken and muffled between his shoulder blades, "He used you, Draco."

He barks out a bitter laugh and she hears leather creaking as if he's clenching his fists. "What does it matter? I let him."

"You didn't _let_ him do anything," she says angrily. "McGonagall is working on a spell."

She winces at his laugh, but decides not to argue. There will be more time for convincing, later, when her cheek isn't itchy from his wool cloak and her palms aren't sweating against the ridges of his abdomen.

"I can't stop him," he admits callously, muscles jumping beneath her fingers, "He's going to take me under and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it."

"I won't let him," she promises, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

The laugh that escapes him is a cruel, cold bark. "He's not going to ask for permission. My father gets what he wants."

"Not this time," she growls, curling her fingers in the soft fabric of his shirt. She's sickened and glad at once at his admission. She knows that a page has been turned between them now. There is no going back from here.

"You don't know my father, Ginny," he sighs.

"And he doesn't know me," she says, with the steely grit that is pure, stubborn Weasley.

He exhales slowly and his whole body relaxes in her arms. Ginny feels a brush of leather covered fingers over her hands. It sends a frisson of heat to every nerve ending in her body. _Okay, this is several steps past too far._ Despite feeling the sudden weight of the wrongness of it all, she releases him reluctantly. She crosses her arms over her body and chews her lip lest she be inclined to grope him again or spout out any more sentimental drivel.

He turns around and she flushes because she knows she looks awful. The wind's been blowing every which way and she's been crying. She probably looks like a puffy-eyed red porcupine, possibly one that's been struck by lightning. He, of course, looks perfect, only the faintest trace of wetness on his lashes to hint at his former emotion. His expression is unreadable as he searches her features, and that's probably for the best. She doesn't want to know what he's thinking right now.

He breaks his gaze and quietly walks around her. She closes her eyes, feeling gutted by the whole ordeal and ready for a hot bath and a dozen chocolate frogs. His boots whisper through the grass as he retreats, leaving just enough noise for her to hear him stop, a few feet away. She looks over her shoulder to see him eyeing her with a quizzical expression.

"Why are you involved in this, Ginny?"

She can't look at him and say this. She simply can't. She closes her eyes and turns her face away. "I don't think I know how to not be involved anymore."

"That's not an answer. Tell me why."

_Merlin, does he ever let up? _ She snorts irritably and opens her eyes to roll them theatrically. "Honestly, Malfoy, I'm still considering a trip to St. Mungo's for that fact that I am voluntarily helping you. Can we just let the _why's_ be for a bit?"

He does smile then and however fleeting it is, it cuts her off at the knees. How did she miss this? In six years, how did she fail to notice him? _Because he was a complete prick until his whole life fell apart_, she thinks.

His smile fades and he looks down, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Be careful. He knows me well."

"So do I," she counters, keeping her chin high.

There is a long pause after that, but she refuses to meet his eyes. At last, she catches his nod in her peripheral vision. Without further ado, he walks to the castle, leaving her reeling in a mix of emotions and ankle-deep in the stream that has changed course at a really inopportune time.

"Blimey," she says to herself, stepping neatly out of the stream and performing a drying spell on her feet. "This is not good, Weasley. This is not good at all."


End file.
